


Under Fire

by Alys_Brauer, frostybutt



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M, Percival Graves needs a vacation, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, War Era, snark and sass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-04-14 05:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14128986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alys_Brauer/pseuds/Alys_Brauer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostybutt/pseuds/frostybutt
Summary: Despite emergency legislation passed by the British Minister for Magic, Archer Evermonde, in 1914, witches and wizards all over Britain joined other magic users throughout Europe to aid in the muggle war effort. Over the past three years, the wizarding war effort has implemented several initiatives making use of magical creatures in an attempt to turn the tide and, more recently, end the stalemate. Now, in 1917, the United States of America have entered into the Great War, bringing the Magical Congress of the United States of America along with it.  MACUSA has deployed the Magical Expeditionary Forces along with their Special Security division, the MSS. The MSS has been given the task to evaluate the magical creature initiatives, and dismantle any programs deemed to be unnecessary, or unsafe. This brings them to the Eastern Front, and the dragon program.





	1. June 20, 1917 – France, MSS Mobile Headquarters

**Author's Note:**

> A huge shout out goes to [Elliot](frostisass.tumblr.com) for indulging me when I wanted to rp this idea first, and helping to develop this wonderful AU! Not to mention all the fantastic sketches and drawings of the MSS OCs!

If there was one thing that he had  _ not _ expected to deal with on this particular deployment, it was quite so much paperwork. It was bad enough that he was forced to deal with the wild variety magical beasts that the mad Brits had decided to make use of against the Krauts; add to that the overly defensive, extremely unhappy Brits who, despite their orders to follow MSS directives, seemed intent on making his job as hard as possible meant that in addition to a rather large and unending headache was a stack of rather large and headache inducing reports.Seemingly endless reports that he was informed, actually been  _ ordered _ in no uncertain terms, to file about every single incident he encountered. Every initiative that had to be dismantled – which so far was every single blasted one – required an in depth report of the parties involved – both wizard and creature – the process of dismantling, and the procedures for the disposal of the creatures.

Considering the MSS hadn’t even  _ officially _ been involved in any offensive battles, he knew he would have to put in for some R&R soon – if for no one else, then for himself.

Leaning back in the uncomfortable camp chair, Percival Graves glances over the reports from their latest operation – the officially sanctioned one that is – and wonders just how much longer he can possibly avoid doing them. Perhaps he can persuade Leverett to at least do the summaries for him.

He directs his eyes to his second-in-command, contemplating the best angle to work him from.

“Say…Sam-”

“Captain?” A shadow appears outside the tent, the familiar voice causing Percival to groan inwardly. There’s only one reason why his operations officer would be coming to him when he was technically off duty.

At least it’s a distraction. 

Percival straightens in his chair, and waves his hand, causing the tent flap to lift, inviting the man to join them inside the tent. “Come on in, Reid,” he calls, idly raking a hand through his hair, shifting again in a futile attempt to get comfortable. “What is it?” Only a great force of will prevents Percival from tacking on the ‘now’ at the end of his inquiry.

“Our new orders, Captain,” the tall, slender man says with just a knowing smirk. Reid adjusts his uniform, and takes a step closer, holding out a folded sheet of paper toward Percival. “Fresh over the Channel. Fields says you’re going to love this one.”

Catching the look from Sam, Percival suppresses a sigh. He can feel his headache swell a notch as the dark man grins at him. It’s almost as if Sam had somehow gotten the contents of the telegram before both Percival and Reid, and couldn’t wait to see his captain’s reaction.

“We’re not even done  _ this _ mission,” Percival mutters under his breath. Still, he takes the folded parchment, and lets his eyes scan over the short, cramped lines of writing.

“They’ve done what!?” Percival reads faster, his eyebrows climbing higher with every line. “Dragons?” he says at last, shock and disbelief colouring his voice. He really shouldn’t be surprised. Not anymore. These European wizards had some seriously questionable practices relating to magical creatures. “They have an entire  _ corps _ of dragons!?”

Leverett lets out a deep chuckle, and pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll go gather the men then, shall I? At least we’re going to Russia while it’s warm.” He grins, white teeth flashing in his dark face.

Percival glares at his second-in-command, then glances down at the parchment again. “You knew about this,” he accuses. “Before me. How did you know about this before me?”

Leverett lays a heavy hand on Percival’s shoulder and squeezes, winking at him. “It’s called gossip, Captain. What any  _ normal _ man does in his down time.”

“Maybe if I had some down time,” Percival shoots right back, shaking his head. “Get me Giddens,” he instructs the man. “Reid, find someone who knows the Eastern Front and get the rest of the boys to pack up. We’re going to have to portkey in.” So much for some R&R. “The fucking Russians have decided to launch an offensive with fucking dragons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork of the main characters by the wonderful [Elliot](frostisass.tumblr.com) here [[x]](http://frostisass.tumblr.com/post/172355613634/big-announcement)


	2. June 22, 1917 – Russia, Eastern Front near the Ukraine Border

First, America wants nothing to do with the Great War. Then they decide that they’d better join after all. Now? Now the Magical Expeditionary Forces have somehow managed to gain control of all the Allied initiatives with magical creatures. Given his understanding of most wizards’ attitudes towards their fellow magical beings, this sudden exuberance on the part of the Americans doesn’t make a lick of sense to Newt. While he’s well aware that he’s only a lowly private, and it really doesn’t have to make sense to  _ him _ , he can still wish that the MSS didn’t seem quite so set on interrupting  _ everything _ .

Did they not understand how imperative it was that this camp stick to their very strict schedule? The creatures in their care had come to accept a certain routine, were eased and soothed by the predictability. But that was all going to pot. First with the  _ movement _ of the encampment from their seclusion toward the front lines, and now with the demand of the MSS for all personnel, trainers and troopers alike, to assemble for their grand entrance.

There are wounded and agitated dragons to take of, the last thing he should be doing right now is playing to the American’s vanity.

Newt sighs and adjusts his uniform, one of the last ones that looks mostly clean, as the rest of the camp falls in around him. A crowd of any sort isn’t good for the dragons, a crowd of strangers is going to be even  _ worse. _ But Kusya had made sure to make it painfully, and inescapably, clear to Newt that  _ he _ was to be there along with everyone else So, here he is, eyes trained on the dragon pens, worry making his brow furrow as twelve men appear out of nowhere, right in the middle of the ring of dragon enclosures.

Immediately, Newt tenses, instinctively starting forward toward the sounds of upset dragons, before remembering that he’s supposed to be staying in formation, and  _ not _ interfering. That doesn’t stop him from wondering exactly how qualified the Special Security division  _ is _ for this sort of mission if they can’t even be bothered to not startle creatures that could very easily roast them where they stood if it took their fancy.

The MSS men pick themselves up off the ground, or straighten their uniforms as needed, while the captain, looking like he’s been ruffled by no more than a light breeze, pockets what must be the portkey and glances around. “Captain Percival Graves,” the man says softly, his gaze landing on Polkovnik Nesterov. “Magical Expeditionary Forces, Special Security Division.” The words are flicked out with bored precision as the man tilts his head and finally looks out at the troops that have been assembled to greet him and his squadron - just as  _ he’d _ ordered.

Those eyes fall on him and seem to linger, making a shiver run down Newt’s spine. Immediately, he lowers his gaze, his shoulders hunching slightly as he fidgets in place. Rather than focusing on the heavy weight of that gaze, his eyes flicker up and past the group of men sorting out packs and supplies, toward the dragon pens. His brow furrows further as gouts of flame light the air and the rumbling of dragons start to fill the silence that has fallen over the assembled troops with the appearance of these Americans.

The imposing Russian nods gravely to the American captain. “Captain Graves,” he greets in heavily accented English – though really it’s vastly improved since Newt had first been assigned here.

Graves salutes. Nesterov returns the gesture.

Newt starts to shift his weight and fidget again, wishing that the pomp and circumstance were over and done with already. The dragons needed to be calmed and cared for, and soon.

“Polkovnik.” Newt winces along with every other Russian soldier present. The rank sounds heavy and awkward on the American’s lips, hardly recognizable as Russian. “Thank you for accepting our request to discuss the matter personally.” Captain Graves continues with a stiff smile.

Nesterov waves a large hand, and says something in rapid fire Russian that Newt can loosely translate as: I did not really have a choice. Let us discuss this somewhere else so my men can get back to work.

Something is going on, something that none of the regular soldiers, or the tamers for that matter, had been informed about. That much is obvious even to Newt, even as though he’s distracted by dragons roaring in distress and hunger. He shifts impatiently,  wishing that the higher ups would leave already so he could get back to his charges.

Once again, Newt feels sharp eyes on him, and he tilts his head slightly to find the Captain staring hard at him. 

He has to fight the urge to fidget. Newt is well aware that he was not made for the military, the only real reason he came out here was because of Theseus, and now the Russians keep him because, unlike the other handlers, his dragons don’t try to eat him at every turn. 

As abruptly as Graves had turned his attention to Newt, he tears it away again, obviously dismissing Newt from his mind as he bends his attention back toward Nesterov and the sharp faced man speaking quietly to him. “Thank you,” Graves says, his voice cool and charming with a practiced honeyed drawl. “Much obliged. Lead the way, sir.”

Nesterov gives a sharp nod, and leads the Americans away into the tent city, leaving those gathered to their own devices once more.

Newt relaxes almost instantly, turning straight toward the dragon pens. He just hopes his charges won’t be too temperamental because of the delay of their dinner. The last thing the Dragon Corps needs at the moment is bad blood with the Americans.


	3. Eastern Front - Dragon Corps Command Tent

_ “Just this way. How long, exactly, were you planning on staying out here. Logistics, you understand. We are running thin on supplies, Captain, and we were told you were coming only yesterday.” _

Marrow keeps up a steady stream of translation as Polkovnik Nesterov continues to bluster at him. As if it were somehow Percival’s fault that they had been sent to the other side of the war with little to no warning. Quite honestly, the Russian’s have no one else to blame except themselves.

Dragon Corps indeed. They were playing with bloody fire is what it was, and Percival didn’t have to be sent out here to know that this particular program, like all the others, had to be shut down. 

Preferably immediately.

Percival takes a deep breath, trying to keep his diplomatic smile firmly in place. Fortunately, despite their hasty deployment, the MSS did have its own equipment, and if the man let him have a word in edgewise, Percival would be able to assure him that doubling up would not be required.

“I am afraid that our orders were not specific,” he manages to cut in, letting Lavern translate for him, taking the opportunity to say anything he can before the blowhard cuts him off again. “Given the situation, the President thought it best to intervene. We are to observe and assist in the cleaning process of the…’additional forces’. However long that may take.”

The moment Lavern finishes translating is obvious by the glowering frown that starts to grow on Nesterov’s face.

Fortunately they reach the command tent at that point, and they’re both forced to pause to address  _ other _ logistics.

“ _ Are they all coming in with us?” _

“No. Just myself, Warrant Officer Leverett, and Sergeant First Class Marrow,” Percival answers the demand as politely as he can. Marrow is, as always, doing an excellent job translating, but even if he can’t understand the words as they are being said, Percival can certainly read the tone and the body language which screams ‘impatient annoyance’ at him.

Percival turns towards the men behind him, and gives them a short nod of dismissal. “Do try not to make too much trouble,” he calls after them as they scatter. He’s probably wasting his breath, but he has to at least try.

Nesterov doesn’t wait for Percival, he charms the canvas flaps open and stalks into the tent, leaving Percival and his officers to scramble after him into the entirely too cramped space, despite the evidence that an extension charms had been used. 

Perhaps Percival shouldn’t be so quick to complain about his paperwork.

_ “I hear that you Americans have some reservations about the Dragon Corps?”  _

Nesterov wastes no time with pleasantries, which Percival appreciates. The Russian officer flicks out his wand, and tumblers of a smoking liquid float to each person in the room as the man himself settles onto a chair.

“MACUSA has some concerns,” Percival acknowledges delicately. Fortunately with the need for translation, the time Percival takes to choose the most diplomatic words possible isn’t very obvious, especially when he uses the cover of sipping at the liquor so generously provided to organise his thoughts. “The President has expressed some concerns about the risks associated with using dangerous beasts as weapons. MACUSA feels that they are too unstable, and need to be disposed of.”

Perhaps Nesterov understands more English than he lets on, because as Percival talks, he watches the man’s glower intensify.

“ нет.”

Percival may not speak Russian, but even he can understand one word said in such an implacable tone.

“My orders-”

Nesterov has grown impatient of translators it seems. He talks right over Percival.

Marrow frowns in concentration as he tries to keep up with the flurry of Russian being spat at them.

_ “We won’t dispose of them. They were deployed on a trial run yesterday and have shown remarkable results. The tactical advantages outweigh the risks. They can easily get behind enemy lines and eliminate an entire trench of resistance. The- _ ” Marrow pauses and shakes his head.

“Some term I never heard before,” Marrow mutters in explanation. “Ah, he said something about an offensive planned for a week from now and- Well, I won’t translate that last bit. Let’s just say that he told us to shove our concerns where the sun don’t shine, they’re going ahead with the battle plan.”

It’s Percival’s turn to glare. “The risk to our allies-”

Nesterov waves a dismissive hand.  _ “The beasts can be temperamental, but our handlers know what they are doing. The offensive will proceed as planned.” _

“Temperamental!?” Percival repeats. He’ll show this Russian ‘temperamental’. “I wouldn’t call an incident that cost two dozen lives on our own side ‘temperamental’. I’d call it down right dangerous and senseless endangerment of Allied lives.”

The reaction that Percival’s come to expect from British Troops, resistance and petulance, appears to be down right anger and straight up opposition on this side of the war. Nesterov stands, towering over Percival, who refuses to respond to the threatening posture. 

_ “Then see for yourself! The beasts are necessary. Everything in war has a risk, Captain Graves. We are equipped to deal with these ones.” _

“If you insist,” Percival says softly, trying to placate the bear of a man. He catches Leverett’s arched eyebrow of disbelief, though he tries to ignore the note of incredulity that’s snuck into Marrow’s voice as he continues to translate. “Feel free to try to convince me. For now, however, our orders stand: dismantle the program and dispose of the beasts. I believe you have received your own set of orders to a similar effect.”

_ “My orders are that you will evaluate the program. So evaluate. The beasts have just come back from a skirmish, but you can see them tomorrow.” _

“On the contrary, Polkovnik,” Percival stands as well now, not backing down. “If I am to evaluate your program and how the risks are being managed by your trainers, now seems the most ideal time: when the beast are at their most….temperamental.” He echoes Nesterov’s word back with a hard, cold smirk.

“ ротмистрТрифонов,” the man snaps out. A man the size of a tree, albeit a slender tree, appears as if summoned out of the air, and bends down a little as Nesterov continues to bark orders at him.

He turns toward Percival and his men and nods slightly. “You wait,” he instructions in heavily accented English before disappearing through the tent flap.

“He’s gone to get someone called ‘Scamander’, sir,” Marrow informs Percival with a slight shrug. “You’ll apparently be getting some sort of demonstration.”

Graves resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose against the headache he feels coming on. “That name doesn’t sound very Russian,” he observes carefully, a hint of hope sneaking into his voice. He abhors having to deal with someone through translators.

“No, hang on-” Marrow asks something and receives a curt reply. “No. He’s not. He’s been seconded here from the Ministry of Magic. He’s British.”

Oh thank Merlin.

“Very well,” Percival says after a moment of consideration. If he won’t need a translator, then it’s probably best to send Marrow off to do some reconnaissance on the situation in the area.  “Could you tell Reid to co-ordinate with the quartermaster to get us set up? I have a feeling our stay here will be a little more extended than we had hoped. If you see Field on the way, send him to me, or get Reid to track him down after he’s done. You’re free to go for a little walk,” he finished pointedly.

Marrow salutes with a grin. “Yes, Captain. Good luck.” He follows the Russian out of the tent, leaving Percival to take one last sip of his drink with Leverett and wait for Nesterov’s supposed ‘expert’ to fail to change his mind.


	4. Eastern Front - Dragon Pens

The roars of agitated dragons set Newt’s nerves on edge. He should be used to the sound by now, but there’s a different tone to it this time. Not only agitated, but in pain. The Ironbellies under his care hadn’t been sent out in battle yet, but given the success - albeit rocky success - of the test mission with the Longhorns, it really was only a matter of time.

“Oi! Scamander! Come give us a hand, my lad!” Ephraim Lashley’s voice cuts through the pained roars of a dragon.

In answer, Newt quickly moves towards the pen that holds the pair of Romanian Longhorns, rolling up his sleeves as he goes. Harriette and Harold had been the test pair - as they were usually the calmest of the creatures. While Harriette was fine, her mate had run afoul of artillery fire, proving that even dragon scales aren’t impervious to everything. “What can I do?” Newt asks, slipping his wand from his holster.

A snort from the other side of the pen entrance draws Newt’s attention briefly. He’s aware that Cornet Savenkov doesn’t like him, but he hasn’t quite figured out why - though even Newt can tell that Savenkov doesn’t think Newt will be much help in the situation.

A large hand comes down on Savenkov’s shoulder, and a deep voice rumbles: “We can always use extra wand.” Paruchik Yefremov squeezes Savenkov’s shoulder, only slightly, but still hard enough to make the younger man wince. “Stop acting a fool, Luka.”

Newt hardly pays attention to this, far more concerned with the dragons. “Did you separate them?” he directs his question to Lashley, though his eyes scan the confined space of the pen, squinting through the smoke for the source of the pained roars.

“‘Not enough space’,” the second Lashley, Ephraim’s sister Adelia, answers in a sing-song voice that makes it clears she’s quoting someone - and that whoever she’s quoting is a right dolt. “Or so the higher ups say,” she continues with a side-long glance at Savenkov and Yefremov.

“There’s room in with Hans and Greta,” Newt says slowly, making some calculations in his head. “They’re not quite full size yet. If we can stun Harriette and move her for a day or two...you should be able to get at Harold and tend to his wounds.”

“Atta boy, Newt!”

Newt stumbles forward under the weight of the hand slapping his back, his wild hair falling into his eyes as he grins nervously up at the two siblings.

“Was hopin’ ye’d say that. Wouldn’t presume to interfere with your beasts though, no point in messin’ with a good thing.”

“Well, so long as we do it carefully, shouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience. We’ll just have to introduce them.”

“Listen to him, talking like they’re two old aunties instead of fire breathing lizards more interested in eatin’ us than havin’ a pleasant little chat. Bless,” Adelia says fondly, ruffling Newt’s hair. 

“You think two Ironbellies will accept intruder just like that? Just because this child say so?” Savenkov scoffs and shrugs the restraining hand off his shoulder. “My parents say even if different breeds hatch together, they will not live in same territory.”

“And who is it whose dragons tried to take a bite out of them this morning, hmm?” Another voice pipes in. A petite girl comes out from the smoke, and punches Savenkov in the arm, making the younger man yelp in surprise. “You let Scamander alone. If he thinks his dragons will accept Harriette, then they will.”

Newt shifts uncomfortably. Harold isn’t getting any better with them all standing around here. “I think-” he starts.

“Right,” Rydavoy Galdina flourishes her wand and turns back toward the dragons. “Look smart lads, it is time to enter belly of  beast!”

Savenkov tries to protest, but Yafremov pushes him forward, and nods to the rest of the assembled handlers. “It is time to act,” he agrees.

The six of them enter to the sound of a bellowing roar and a gout of flame that hits a shielding spell. Newt’s focus narrows to the task immediately at hand. He doesn’t notice that they’ve gained a small audience until Harriette has at last been subdued and a much distraught Harold, though still injured and restrained, tries to reach his mate.

“-Scamander. Private Scamader!”

Newt blinks, and wipes some sweat from his brow as he turns toward the sound of his name. “Um…yes?” he asks in confusion, his brow furrowed. His expression immediately goes blank when his watering eyes clear enough to recognize the man in front of him. Newt quickly sketches a hasty salute to Rittmeister Trifonov. “I mean,” he  says quickly. Kusya is, of course, aware that Newt couldn’t bloody well leave off in the middle of dragon wrangling, but that doesn’t mean whoever sent him would understand.“What is it,  ротмистр ?”.

“ Полковник Нестеров has ordered you to him, Private. Immediately.”

Newt hesitates, glancing over at the stunned dragon, then over to the other handlers. “Go on lad,” Adelia encourages with a reassuring smile. “Now that we’ve got her out we can start to move her. Just make sure you’re not too long now, don’t think anybody but you could get those giants of yours to let us put her in with them.”

“Right,” Newt nods, pushing his fingers through his hair, making it even wilder as it stands up oddly with sweat, ash, and dust. “It won’t take long, will it?” he asks, looking in Trifonov’s direction.

The Russian makes a noise in the back of his throat that could mean anything from ‘I don’t know’ to ‘Hurry your ass up’ and everything in between. “Come along, Private, the  Полковник does not like to be kept waiting.”

Newt opens his mouth to protest, he was doing his  _ job _ , it’s not like he had purposefully kept Nesterov waiting. Before any words could leave his mouth though, he caught sight of Ephraim shaking his head firmly. He then gave Newt a wink and a shrug as if to say: Higher ups, nothing to be done. Newt snaps his mouth closed, and sighs, trudging after Trifonov with his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, his index finger tapping idly against his thigh. Sometimes it just felt like he couldn’t do anything right.

“That was some pretty slick wrangling.”

Newt twitches at the unfamiliar voice that comes out of nowhere. He tilts his head to catch sight of one of the Americans, and bites his cheek against a sigh.

“Pretty impressive beasts too. What’s their fire power like? Gotta be a pretty nice blast radius from something that size. Bet they’ve got quite the kill count.” The man grins and flicks a cigarette stub into the muddy ground even as he slides a new stick from a pack tucked away into his front pocket and lights it with a touch of wandless magic.

Newt’s confusion turns into dislike almost immediately. He lifts his eyes to meet the strangers, his own hard and unyielding. “They’re intelligent creatures-” His gaze darts to the unfamiliar insignia, and it takes him a moment to work out the rank. “Sergeant,” Newt continues stiffly. “Not killing machines. Harriette is worried about her injured mate, not about a body count; she’s reacting just like any other creature with a modicum of intelligence would when someone she cares about is hurt, perhaps with the exception of yourself.”

The weight of Trifonov’s eyes doesn’t curb Newt’s sharp tongue. This was the problem with many of his fellow wizards. They didn’t see an intelligent creature with its own needs and behaviours, they just saw something that was either useful and worth the effort to bend them to their own benefit, or something ‘dangerous’ that deserved only to be exterminated.

The American sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, his eyes shining with some emotion that Newt couldn’t be bothered to puzzle out at the moment. “Hey now, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, pup. I was just-”

Fortunately, they arrive at the command tent at precisely that moment. “Excuse me, Sergeant,” he cuts in, already lifting the flap of the tent. He pauses, only to give the man a salute, he does have a higher rank after all, and then steps into the command tent..

“Mother fucker.”

The muttered curse follows Newt as he lets the flap fall closed behind him. 


	5. Eastern Front - Command Tent

“Полковник,” Newt greets almost immediately, pushing the unpleasant American out of his mind. After a moment, he catches on to the very pointed look Trifonov is giving him, and sketches a hasty salute, his cheeks reddening slightly. 

“Private Scamander, I presume,” an amused voice drawls from just off to the Polkovnik’s right.

Newt flinches in surprise; he’d known the American Captain was with Nesterov – well, maybe he’d temporarily forgotten, given the fact that he’d just had to wrestle a very irate dragon – but he hadn’t seen the man, and being addressed directly always took him slightly by surprise. “Ah, yes,” Newt says awkwardly, ducking his head slightly as his shoulders rise in discomfort. “Yes, that’s me.”

Belatedly, he once again remembers that he’s in the army, and straightens his shoulders quickly before giving another sketchy salute. “Private Scamander, Captain, reporting as ordered,” he says in a rush, though his gaze is focused somewhere past the American’s shoulder. “Might I ask what this is all about?” he continues, without waiting for anyone to direct him to speak. His finger starts to tap against his thigh, and his mind wanders back to Harriette – she won’t stay stunned forever, he had to go prepare the Ironbellies’ enclosure for her arrival – and the things he  _ should _ be attending to rather than standing here awkwardly in the stuffy command tent. “Only, one of the dragons is injured, you see, and we have to finish transferring one to a different enclosure for the time being. It’s a rather delicate procedure and I’d really rather utilize all the time I have to get the others ready for their new enclosure mate.”

“The captain was hoping for tour,” Nesterov cuts in bluntly, making Newt bite his tongue against a further storm of rambling words. 

“Right now?” Newt asks incredulously. After a beat, he hastily adds: “Sir,” before continuing. “They get jittery around strangers at the best of times, let alone when we’re moving them. I really don’t think-”

“While I do appreciate your input,  _ private _ ,” the American speaks up, and Newt falls silent, tilting his head slightly so that the man is in his line of sight. “Frankly, we have a tight schedule to keep, and I would prefer to waste as little time as possible.”

Normally Newt would be more than happy to introduce his dragons to anyone interested; to explain about the majesty of the creatures and try to get them to understand why it wasn’t necessary to have such strict laws concerning them. But it’s more than clear that this American Captain has no interest in any of that, he has his mission, and he’s here to follow orders. Newt doesn’t have time to be guiding this man around anywhere, trying to make sure he doesn’t get eaten, when Newt’s needed to help with the creatures.

“Am I understood?”

Newt gives a quick jerk of his head. “Come along then,” he says tersely, already turning and heading back toward the entrance of the tent. “They’ve waited quite long enough for our human nonsense.” 

Without another word, Newt pushes the flaps of the tent up and heads off toward the dragon enclosures.

  * \-     - -     - 



Percival, remains in his seat, too stunned to move. He’s not exactly used to being the one being ordered around, especially not by a private. Slowly, he pulls himself to his feet, and casts a glance over at the man behind the field desk. “You appear to have a disciplinary problem, Polkovnik,” he observes, his gaze sliding to the tent entrance.

Nesterov just stares at Percival, clearly waiting for the man to leave.

The willowy tree of a man that had been sent to fetch Scamander in the first place shakes his head slightly. “Scamander is…” he pauses, then shrugs. “Is very talented. Perhaps we can forgive him little bit for mistakes when it comes to chain of command and regulations.”

Percival shoots the other man a look that clearly says what he thinks of  _ that _ . No one is going to win this war if they start making compromises on the quality of their soldiers. Far from not being military material, the young Brit seems to be an unknown factor that could seriously affect the outcome of his own mission. 

“Captain,” the man speaks up again, and nodes toward the entrance of the tent. “You had best be going. He will not wait.”

With a muttered oath, Percival replaces his hat and strides quickly toward the entrance. “Well then, Polkovnik,” he excuses himself hastily, pausing only to give the man a quick, respectful nod, before rushing after Private Scamander. 

While it is quite clear that Scamander hadn’t waited for him, the boys from the MSS squad happily point the way for Percival with knowing grins and, undoubtedly, whispered bets as to what fate awaits the Private that has dared to mess with Captain Graves.

Finally catching up to the boy, Percival falls into step beside him, as if he’d been there all along. “So,” he says, trying for civil and recognizing his failure with even that one word. “Anything I should know before entering the den of the devil?”

Apparently, that was not the right thing to say. No sooner had the words left Percival’s mouth than did the boy stiffen noticeably and shoot a look at Percival out of the corner of his eye that could, quite probably, have petrified him had he maintained it for more than the briefest of moments. 

“These are Ukrainian Iron Bellies, the largest dragon species we know about. And, as I already said, they are going to be quite jittery because we are introducing a new dragon into their enclosure. So, I suggest you stay as close to me as possible, if you still insist on coming, and try not to startle them. Quite honestly, it would be better if you stayed behind me completely, better still if you would consider waiting until after we have finished the transfer before your...tour.”

“I am quite sure that I will be able to manage,” Percival responds with an easy confidence that, he has to admit, starts to fail a little as they approach the pen and walk past the body of a stunned dragon, guarded carefully by a full dozen wizards, all with their wands out and pointed directly at the beast. “But, if you insist,” he continues, dropping back so he’s just step behind the private. “You are the expert after all.”

The boy doesn’t respond to him, he merely strides past the other handlers with a nod, and charms open the lock and the door of the pen.

Percival nearly takes a step back. The sounds were in no way misleading, nor were the names of the creatures. Even outside the pen itself, and behind Newt, the dragons were a sight to behold. ‘Large’ didn’t even begin to describe them, they were massive, as was the pen, but judging from the amount of extension charms Percival could see when he looked past Private Scamander, they were still growing into their enclosure.

Scamander seems perfectly content to ignore Percival completely, striding into the enclosure with shoulders hunched and hands held open in front of him, leaving Percival to hurry after him, doing his best not to look directly into either of the beast’s eyes as he steps past an invisible barrier into what feels like a furnace.

“Hello there, Greta,” Scamander speaks softly, stepping forward with an easy confidence that seems completely at odds with his gangly frame, and the size of the beasts looming over them. One of them lowers its head, and Scamander pats it affectionately on its muzzle, completely ignoring the razor sharp teeth that are about as long as his arm. “I have someone I want you to meet. She’s going to be staying with you for a little while, so I want you two to get along.” 

The creatures eyes close to mere slits, the spikes on the top of its head lying flat as Scamander moves his hand slowly up and down between its nostrils. It looks almost peaceful, until Percival shifts, kicking a loose stone, causing the beast’s head to shoot up, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar scent. It rises on its hind legs, and lets out a roar that shakes the ground under Percival’s feet.

Scamander takes a quick step back, moving directly in front of Percival and holding his hands up in front of him. “Shhhh. Shhh,” he tries to soothe monster. “It’s all right. It’s all right, Greta. It’s okay.”

A hand grasps Percival’s shoulder, painfully, and pulls him back, yanking him out of the dragon enclosure to press him up against the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. He looks up to the see the tree of a man from the command tent. “What in the hell-”

“You are upsetting them,” the man growls, and his voice is deep enough, and dark enough, to sound enough like the dragon that an involuntary shiver runs down Percival’s spine.

“As I’ve already said to the Polkovnik. If you want to keep your precious beasts, I have to see the handlers in action-”

“No,” the man says, voice as implacable as stone. “You are upsetting them. You will stay here. You will wait until transfer complete. Tricky business, not the usual. You stay. You wait. Here.”

There doesn’t seem to be much of a choice. Percival can feel the weight of more eyes upon him as he stares up at the man. Finally, he gives a sharp nod. “Very well,” he nearly growls himself. “I will wait here. For now.”

The man snorts, and turns away from Percival, clearly dismissing him from mind. He issues orders, in firm, quiet, Russian, sending his team scattering to their assigned posts for the dragon transfer.

Percival pushes himself away from the wall of the enclosure, and tugs his uniform back into place, checking his surroundings to make sure that none of his men had seen that. Cursing under his breath, he folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the pen wall, waiting for Scamander and the rest of the dragon handlers to finish so he can get back to shutting down this ludicrous circus.

He doesn’t need to see anything else. His mind had been made up as soon as he’d read the word ‘dragon’ back in France. This little incident just confirms what any sane person should know: dragons are too dangerous to co-exist this closely with wizards.

When at last the group emerges, sooty and undeniably singed, Percival pushes himself from the wall again and moves to stand in front of the youngest member of the group. “Private Scamander,” he says cooly, watching as the young man nearly walks right into him, then jerks back in surprise. “In case you are wondering, that did not go well.”

The private visibly tenses, his eyes looking past Percival, no doubt at the backs of his retreating comrades, before focusing again on the mud at his feet. “I did tell you that today was not the best time for a tour. You are a stranger, and we were introducing another female into the pen. Dragons are quite territorial. If you had only listened-”

“That is quite enough, Private,” Percival cuts in. He really is in no mood to pander to the Russians. The entire country is already in chaos, add dragons to the mix and you were just asking for trouble, as he has already seen. “When would be a more appropriate time for me to observe you with the beasts and assess the program?” Not that he hadn’t already made up his mind, but it would probably be for the best if these Russian wizards saw him following procedure.

Scamander’s shoulders seem to relax a little bit at Percival’s question, and he lifts his eyes just enough to glance at Percival out of the corner of them. “Tomorrow evening,” he answers without pause. “Harriette should be out of the pen by then, and the Ironbellies will have settled. You could accompany me for their evening feed. Just so long as you promise to leave them be until after the transfer.”

It takes a moment for Percival to think this over. He certainly isn’t used to being given instructions by a child, a certainly not by someone with a lower rank than himself. But...he isn’t a fool, and he would rather not be that close to dragon’s flame again. “Very well,” he says with a sharp nod of his head. “I will meet you at the feeding tent at 1900 tomorrow. And I expect a proper tour this time.”

“Very well,” Scamander starts, then pauses as he catches the look in Percival’s eyes. “I mean, yes, sir,” he corrects himself, saluting hastily. 

Biting back a sigh, Percival nods. “Good. You are dismissed, Private.”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth, than is Scamander siding around him to lose himself in the tents of the camp.

At that, Percival does sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. He can already tell that this is not going to end well.


	6. June 23, 1917 – Russia, Eastern Front

Returning Harriette to her own pen had been a breeze compared to putting her in with the Iron Bellies. No doubt because she was returning to her own territory, but it certainly hadn’t hurt that Captain Graves had been nowhere to be seen when the transfer occurred. 

Of course, that didn’t mean that Captain Graves would be content to sit on the side lines forever. Or even temporarily.

The American is waiting for Newt at the tent where the dragon’s food is prepared, just as he’d promised he would be.

“Private Scamander,” he greets, staring at Newt until Newt remembers that an officer had spoken to him and salutes quickly. “I am quite ready for that tour now. Shall we start with your beasts?”

Newt stares, then jerks his head, turning away to gather magically extended buckets full of bloody meat. “Yes sir. Just this way, sir,” he mutters, trying not to sound as irritated as he feels at the interruption to his routine. Of course he had suggested that Graves join him on the evening feed, but after yesterday he hadn’t thought the man would actually take him up on the offer. Though, of course, his entire reason for being here was to assess the dragon program, so really Newt shouldn’t have expected anything else.

He doesn’t say a word as he leads the way back to the Iron Bellies’ enclosure. He pauses before the entrance, and glances back at Graves. “Do try not to startle them this time,” he instructs absently, before charming the doors open again.

“ _ Me _ ? Startle  _ them? _ ” Newt hears the vague, incredulous growl behind him, but ignores it.

There are far more important things that require his attention.

“Hello there, Greta,” he says softly, dumping the contents of the magically enhanced bucket into the feeding trough. Really, dragons should be allowed to hunt, this dumping food in front of them was doing nothing for their restlessness. Of course, when he’d mentioned that, he’d been ignored, so all he can do is the best he can with what he has.

“Hello Hans,” Newt croons to the second dragon, patting him on the nose as he fills the male’s food trough.

“Hans? Greta? Charming names for something so deadly.”

The dark mutter makes Newt glance over his shoulder, the dragons pulling back with low growls at the unrecognized sound.

Newt quickly returns his attention to his creatures, holding up his hands soothingly. “Shhh, shhhh. It’s all right. I’m here. There’s nothing to worry about,” he says softly.

Keeping his voice low and soothing, Newt directs his next comments to Captain Graves, though he doesn’t look at the man. “Greta you met yesterday. This is her mate, Hans. I thought it appropriate to give them names, since they are under my care.” 

“Forgive my curiosity,” Captain Graves speaks again, though this time his tone is closer to Newt’s. 

Well, at least he seems to be learning.

“How does someone your age get into a dangerous position like this? In America, we would not allow such a safety hazard, let alone allow someone as young as you anywhere near dangerous beasts such as these.”

Newt tenses, his shoulder rising up to his ears, his body becoming rigid and still. “Oh well, you know,” he says carefully, keeping his anger in check. “Everyone is doing their part. I would rather work with these creatures than let an ignorant wizard do them harm in a misguided attempt to control them,” he finishes, his voice as stiff as his body.

“And what will you do, I wonder,” Percival continues in the same tone, his voice mildly curious. “When the pens are cleared and the beasts are gone?”

“What?” Newt turns suddenly, his head snapping up as he stares incredulously at Graves. “What do you mean cleared up? You said you were here to observe and assess. Surely you cannot have made up your mind already. The battle offensive is supposed to start in a week!”

Around them, the dragons start to rumble and growl, sensing the tension in the air.

“My orders were clear,” Graves answers, his tone harsh. “I have been tasked with discarding all programs involving magical beasts.” He takes a step towards Newt and the dragons, apparently forgetting Newt’s warning about not startling them. “I saw more than enough yesterday to form a fairly good opinion of the viability of this farce.”

The dragons start to shift and roar, the smell of sulphur becoming heavy in the air. Their agitation mirrors Newt’s. He turns just in time to see Greta lunging forward, her teeth snapping on thin air where Captain Graves had been a moment before.

Quickly, Newt dodges to the side, putting himself in front of the crouching Graves, holding his hands in front of him. “No. No Greta. It is all right. Everything is okay.”

“This,” Graves snarls from behind him. “This is  _ exactly _ why this program is being discarded.”

Newt risks a glance over his shoulder to glare at the man. “They’re just protecting me,” he tries to protest. A great wave of heat washes over him, the smell of scorched hair drifts through the air, making Newt wince and quickly pat at his head to put out the small fire.

He steps backward, hoping that Graves isn’t stupid enough, or stubborn enough, to try to resist Newt’s herding.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the agitated dragons, Newt continues to back up until he passes under the arch of the enclosure doors, then quickly flicks his wand and forces the doors shut and locked. Judging from the licks of flame that rise over the top of the pen, they’d been just in time. 

“Now look what you’ve done!” Newt snaps, turning on Graves. “They’re upset now! It will be impossible to work with them for hours!”

“Excuse me!?” Graves shouts back at Newt. He gathers himself together and straightens to his full height, looming over Newt in a typical display of male dominance. “If anything, these  _ beasts _ just proved my point! A single soldier raises his voice, and they start to wreak havoc. I cannot possibly imagine what chaos they will cause on a battlefield.”

At first Newt’s anger and distress make him bold. He isn’t intimidated by Graves’ posturing, though he hunches his shoulders and lowers his head to make the man underestimate. But a wand suddenly being shoved against his chest makes his head snap up and eyes widen in shock. “What-”

“Get yourself cleaned up and report back to me immediately. You are going to make yourself useful. Do I make myself clear, Private?”

“ _ You _ are not my commanding officer,” Newt answers, not pausing to think. He takes a step back from the wand, his fingers tightening on his own.

“I may not be your commanding officer,” Graves says softly, twisting his wrist to keep his wand fixed levelly at Newt’s chest. “But as commander of this operation, and Captain in Magical Special Security, I have been given some leeway. It seems like you may be useful in the disposal of these beasts. So, as of right now, you are under my command and will obey my direct orders. Now, I will ask you one more time, Scamander: Do I make myself clear?”

“бычить,” Newt snaps, losing his patience with the man. He hasn’t even been here for two days, and already this Captain thinks he can just order Newt about like he hasn’t been working with these creatures far longer than the Americans have even been in the war. Insisting on accompanying Newt to the pens, ignoring his advice, and then acting like it was all the dragons fault, or Newt’s fault for not being able to control them. 

For the love of Merlin! They’re magical creatures, not tame beasts, of course they were going to be upset by a stranger just barging into their territory.

“I’m sorry, what was that, Private?” the captain snarls right back at Newt. 

“I said: ‘Yes sir, I will see to it immediately’,” Newt lies, averting his gaze.

“See that you do, private,” Graves growls, and turns on his heel, stalking back across the camp.

“бычить,” Newt observes again, muttering it under his breath this time.

There’s a rough croak of laughter, and Newt looks up, startled to see one of the Americans leaning against the enclosure, -although Newt could swear he hadn’t been there a moment ago. “You’re not wrong,” the man observes, his sharp gaze softened by a twinkle of amusement in his dark eyes. “But I would watch what I was saying if I were you.”

Newt frowns at the man’s ear, a finger tapping in agitation against his thigh. “Why? Are you going to tell him what I said?”

“No,” the man responds slowly, still amused. “But when he can get his tongue around the word properly and asks me, I won’t be lyin’ to my captain either.”

A flush rises to Newt’s cheeks, though he’s not sure if its more from anger or embarrassment at being called out by this American. “Well, when you do, make sure to tell him that I won’t say it anymore if he behaves himself.” Newt stalks past the man with every intention of hiding in his tent for the rest of the nightt.

The sound of rough laughter follows him.


	7. Eastern Front - MSS Mobile Headquarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone for reading so far!   
> Your lovely comments keep me going!  
> I also wanted to say that you can certainly expect more art of this AU, so keep an eye out ;)  
> Anyways, enjoy the chapter~

Percival hardly glances at his second-in-command as he storms into the MSS’ temporary headquarters, instead settling into a stalking pacing just in front of the table. How dare he! How dare that bratty little Brit talk to him like that! He was in charge of this operation now! Or at the very least, in charge of whether or not it continued - and after everything he’d seen in the last couple of days, it was certainly  _ not _ going to continue for much longer.

Leverett and Field are watching him pace, Percival can feel the eyes on him. “Field!” he snaps, suddenly stopping his pacing and staring hard at his communications office. “Where in Merlin’s name is Marrow? I want him here,  _ now _ .” 

“No need to get your knickers in a twist, Captain,” Marrow says brightly, ducking into the tent. “I came along right after you.”

“Bye-chit,” Percival snaps at the sergeant.

Lavern blinks at his captain. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Bye-chit,” Percival repeats, his accent even more horrendous than the first time he’d spit out the word. “What does it mean?”

It’s a good thing for the Brit that Percival Graves has no grasp of cyrillic languages at all. Of course, Lavern had been there so he knew what Percival was  _ trying _ to say. But the word was so garbled that if he hadn’t been there- “I have no idea, Captain,” he responds, remaining straight faced even as Graves glowers at him. “Where did you hear it? Are you certain that it’s Russian?”

“Yes I am, damn you,” Percival growls. He turns the word over in his mind again, trying to remember how Scamander had said it, but failing. “Never mind, then,” he growls, stalking over to the work table and throwing himself down in a chair. “Just tell me what you found out on your little outing.”

“You’re not going t’ like it,” Marrow informs Percival with a grimace. “Quite apart from the dragons-”

Percival makes a noise in the back of his throat. Apart from the dragons? As if the dragons weren’t a headache on their own, of course he’d walked into another mess.

“Apart from the dragons,” Marrow repeats, giving Percival a sharp look. “The feelings in the camps aren’t that great. The no-maj’s have decided to democratize the army.”

“What?”

“Yeah, strange ain’t it? Officer’s don’t hold quite so much power, apparently there are soldier committees to approve orders or some such, and the no-maj infantry is getting restless. Not to mention our magical allies.” Marrow rolls his eyes, as if that tells Percival all he needs to know about the situation. “The Russian King is getting a wee bit antsy what with the abdication and murder of the no-maj Tsar and his family. He’s worried that continued collaborative efforts will influence the wizarding world. But then, the officers out here are more than willing to follow his orders and prove the strength of wizarding character, or some other such nonsense.Which, no doubt, is why you hit a wall with the good  Полковник earlier.”

Percival groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling another headache coming on. 

“What are the chances that this offensive will succeed?” Sam asks from behind Percival.

“Not so great, sir,” Marrow says with a shrug. “Not if we have to rely on the no-maj’s to hold territory. Oh, I’ve no doubt we can push through the lines what with bloody dragons on our side, but-”

“But the Russians do not have nearly enough wizards to hold the lines. And if the feelings in the no-maj trenches are as you say,” Percival finishes for Lavern with a sigh. “Then this is a waste of time and manpower, not to mention literally playing with fire where those blasted dragons are concerned.”

“If you want my opinion-”

“I don’t,” Percival cuts Marrow off, but, of course, the man just keeps on going.

“I would say that this program should be shut down before the offensive begins. And if you want to do that you’re going to have to play nice with that Scamander lad. If you can get him on your side-”

His jaw clenches, and Percival glares at his intelligence officer. “That is quite enough, Sergeant. You are dismissed.”

Marrow shrugs. “Aye, sir,” he answers. Before leaving the tent, he salutes, then waves as he disappears through the flap, no doubt off to cause trouble with the others while Percival is forced to deal with this headache.

“He is right you know,” Sam points out in his infuriatingly calm way. “You need to get Private Scamander on our side. As much as dragons can like anyone, they seem to like him.”

Percival turns his gaze to his second in command, and folds his hands in front of himself. “I do not see how that has any bearing on our mission.”

“He will know the best way to dismantle the program with the least amount of damage. Unless...you know how to dispose of half a dozen fully grown dragons?” Sam grins at Percival, knowing damn well that he’s got the Captain cornered. 

“Well fuck.”

Sam laughs, a deep, full sound with no regard whatsoever for Percival’s pride. “Knew you would see it that way eventually. But we cannot afford to waste time, Captain.”

“Yes. All right. I understand,” Percival grumbles, waving his hand in an attempt to wave away Sam’s laughter, though, of course, it has absolutely no effect. “You know what? You’re dismissed as well, Leverett.” The grumble turns to a snap as Percival’s rather precarious hold on his already flaming temper breaks.

“Oh, aye, Captain,” Sam answers, still as calm as ever. “I shall leave you to sulk all by yourself. Come along, Field.”

“I am not-”

A soft cough from the entrance of the tent pulls both men’s eyes toward the slightly hunched figure standing rather awkwardly just inside. “Private Scamander, reporting as ordered, sir.” 

Percival curses under his breath. “Yes, fine, come in,” he commands testily, turning his gaze away from the young man to stare at the scatter of papers strewn over the makeshift desk. “I trust you can see yourself out, Warrant Officer?”

“Yes, Captain.” 

There’s a rustle of canvas, and Percival glances up to find himself alone, again, with Private Scamander.

“Well? Don’t just stand there, come in and take a seat, we have a lot to discuss.”

“We do?” Scamander asks, clearly wary and no little bit confused. “I don’t see that we have anything to discuss.” His tone is sullen, guarded, and Percival can feel his irritation starting to rise again.

He forces himself to take a breath and push it away. He’d seen how effective his temper was - that was to say absolutely none at all - and, as much as he hates to admit it, Leverett and Marrow were right. He was going to have to make nice with this Brit if he had any hope of dismantling this program without losing any more lives in the process. 

“Take a seat,” Percival instructs again, stalling for time. There has to be some way to get through to this man without actually apologizing - because Percival certainly isn’t sorry for anything, all of his actions have been completely justified. “I could use your insight.”

Scamander watches him without seeming to actually look at him, then lowers himself warily into the seat opposite Percival, remaining stiff and ready to run. “My insight? Into what?” he challenges softly. 

“Why don’t you make an educated guess, Scamander?” Graves asks dryly, giving the young man his signature joyless smirk. “According to Polkovnik Nesterov, you are the expert when it comes to the dragons. Therefore, your knowledge is somewhat of a commodity, and would be more than appreciated.”

The Brit stares at him, not blinking, and clearly waiting for something. “And?” he prompts quietly.

“Look, Private. Any insight you have into those beasts will help to push this operation along. Before you know it, we’ll be out of your camp again.”

Scamander starts to tap a finger against his thigh and bites his lower lip. Percival has to suppress another sigh. He doesn’t know what Scamander could be thinking so deeply about. He was a soldier, he’d been given an order. Honestly, given the tension between them, he’d thought the boy would jump at the chance to speed Percival and his men on their way.

“What if I don’t want to help you dispose of these creatures?” Scamander’s voice is quiet, his gaze fixed on his own tapping finger, but there’s nothing hesitant about the words. “They’re incredible, intelligent beasts, and shouldn’t be punished for following their instincts.”

Percival’s hand clenches into a fist under the small camp table. This kid’s attitude is really starting to irritate him. “Let me put it another way,” he answers, his voice dangerously low. “Until my mission here is complete and this program dismantled, you are being reassigned to me personally.”

That gets a reaction. Scamander’s head shoots up, and he stares at Percival in open mouthed shock. “What?”   
  


“I would have thought my meaning quite clear, Private. You have been removed from active duty with the RMF Dragon Corps and seconded, instead, to the MSS.”

“But my dragons-”

“Will have to make do without you. Unless,” Percival gives the boy a sharp stare. “You have any input to add on the best way to dismantle this program with the least amount of damage to all parties involved.”

Okay, it wasn’t, strictly speaking, playing nice with Scamander, but Percival needed results, not debates.

“The Russians won’t let you just dismantle the program and dispose of the dragons. The offensive is supposed to start next week, they won’t just call it off.”

“Russian command is my problem, Private, not yours. Your only consideration should be following my orders. So,” Percival folds his hands in front of himself, feeling a little thrill at the victory he know he’s just won. “Are you going to offer any advice about the dragons?”

Scamander’s finger stops tapping for a moment, then starts again, faster now, though his gaze is still fixed somewhere past Percival. “If,” Scamander starts slowly, biting his lip before continuing. “If the dragons are no longer needed for the war effort, why not just set them free?”

There’s no need to even pretend to consider that option. Release the dangerous beasts into the wild? That’s just asking for trouble. “Denied,” he replies abruptly and shakes his head. “Beasts used in war might be captured by the enemy and used against us if we just let them go. Not to mention the uncontrollable chaos they could cause in No-Maj territory.”

Scamander exhales sharply and frowns at Percival’s ear. “But that’s not fair,” he protests. 

Like this is some kind of democracy, like fairness comes into it at all. The world has been at war for three years and this kid still thinks there’s such thing as ‘fair’?

“They didn’t ask to be brought here. They didn’t ask to be turned into weapons,” Scamander continues, gaining confidence as he speaks. “Put them back where they came from. Return them to their traditional territories.” 

For the first time, Scamander’s eyes land on Percival’s face and meets his eyes. Pale blue-green and piercing in their intensity.

It last for less than a second, but Percival finds himself scrambling to regain his composure as Scamander glances away again, biting his lower lip in thought.

Percival clears his throat. “Returning the beasts to their original habitat would prove to be...tedious. But I suppose, it is not impossible.” Was it worth the risk to the men in charge of transporting the beasts though? They were moving them already though, so it wouldn’t present that much of an increase.

Scamander raises his eyes again, though not high enough for them to meet Percival’s, and a cautious smile tugs at his lips. “You asked for my opinion,” he says softly. “In my opinion, I think relocation is the best option.”

It’s not like Percival particularly enjoyed bloodshed, in fact, he was usually all for avoiding unnecessary bloodshed. It’s just...these were  _ dragons _ and they’d tried to  _ eat _ him. He really couldn’t be blamed for holding a bit of a grudge. Then again-

He suppresses a sigh, internally weighing the tediousness of transportation and the accompanying paperwork, and the hassle and danger of trying to execute half a dozen dragons with their handlers clearly ready to defend their charges. 

“I’ll consider it,” he says slowly. “See if it’s actually feasible given the circumstances.” Circumstances being that they were in a bloody war-zone right near the Front. “And let you know my decision tomorrow.”   
  
Scamander relaxes, and his fingers stop their incessant tapping at last. “Thank you.” The pure emotion in those two simple words catch Percival off-guard. As if he’s doing the boy a personal favour by  _ considering _ the option he’d given Percival. 

He nods, not certain what else to do.

“If that’s everything? I need to return to my tent for my own supper, and I have to get up early to feed my charges.” 

“Ah-yes. Yes. That will be all for now, Private. You are dismissed.”

“I...suppose that I’m to report to you after I’ve finished with the dragons’ morning feed?” the boy asks as he stands up, arching a brow down at Percival.   
  
“Clever boy,” Percival responds dryly, giving Scamander his first honest grin since he’d stepped foot on these grounds. Insufferable, annoying, headstrong, certainly, but there was something about the  _ way _ Scamander challenged him that he found just the slightest bit intriguing. “You’re learning fast. Now be on your way, and I’ll see you in the morning for standard PT.”

Percival sits back in his chair, watching the boy’s back as he leaves, not even trying to hide his grimace of distaste at the mention of PT. 

He’s seen many things over the years, but never has Percival had the misfortune of meeting someone as peculiar and headstrong as this damn Brit. The mission is turning out to be far more interesting than he’d anticipated. 

And...it’s not entirely a bad thing.


	8. June 24, 1917 – Russia, Eastern Front, MSS Mobile Headquarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your lovely comments! Truly, they make my week :)  
> Hope you enjoy this next chapter!  
> It's a little bit shorter, but I get to introduce some of Elliot and my boys!

In theory, seconding Private Scamander to the MSS for the duration of their current assignment was the best, and most efficient, course of action. In practice, however…

“All I’m sayin’ is, it don’t make sense, Cap. Sure, make use of the pup, no arguments here, I look best with all my parts attached and not in some beast’s belly, but usin’ him don’t require adoptin’ him too.”

In practice, it’s the very last thing that Percival needs right now: another headache.

“As if we don’t have enough to worry about already. We gotta watch our own asses out here, there’s no time for any of us to be watching out for a pup as well. And a damn rude pup at that.” Sergeant Crick fishes around in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes he always carried with him, lights one off the butt currently hanging from his lips, and switches the new for the old, flicking the glowing butt into the mud.

Percival can’t exactly disagree with Crick. Scamander definitely isn’t the easiest to get along with, Merlin knows he would rather just wash his hands of the boy. Unfortunately, Sam and Marrow were correct: Scamander is their best resource for completing this mission successfully and with the minimum amount of casualties.

“Just cause he don’t fancy your less than charming arse-”

“You didn’t have any complaints about my ass last night, Lavern. Any ways, this ain’t got nothin’ to do with my ass. I’ve been asking around-”

“More like drinking around,” Sam says, his voice dangerously soft.

“Oi! Fuck off!” Crick’s reaction is knee-jerk. He recalls himself for a brief moment. “I mean, fuck off, sir. Drinkin’ with the locals is the best way to get information.”

Lavern snorts. “Getting information isn’t  _ your _ job, Crick.”

“Don’t see no one else doin’ it.”

“That’s cause your head’s so far up your own arse you-”

“Enough!” Percival roars, and blessed silence falls over the assembled members of the MSS.

“Sergeant First Class Crick, the last time I checked,  _ I  _  was captain, not you. Therefore I, not you, will decide the best course of action to take. The paperwork has been sent off, in a few days it will be official, so I suggest you start getting used to the idea of a new member on the team.”

“Team? From what I hear, Scamander don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Again, Percival can’t disagree there. From what he’s observed so far, Scamander seems to operate best when it’s just him and his beasts. Of course, the Russian handlers, for the most part, seemed to respect his skills, but that didn’t mean they necessarily  _ liked _ Scamander.

“And since when, Millard,” a mild voice speaks up from the back of the group, and all eyes turn toward the genial face of Healer John Telford. “Do you take anybody’s word but your own?”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t too charmin’ when I tried to talk to him neither.” Crick’s sullen tone suggests that Telford’s words had managed to at least nudge home, if not hit it directly.

“You aren’t great with first impressions either, Millard,” Percival points out, more for diplomacy than anything else. Since Scamander  _ is _ being seconded to the MSS, its best for everyone if they all get along. Tension in a team this small could mean disaster and people getting hurt. “Culver knocked you out the first time you two met, and only Sam’s interference prevented Logan from cursing you through next Tuesday during your first operation together.”

At that, Crick at least has the grace to look a little ashamed.

“Besides,” Marrow pipes up. “Since when could you speak Russian fluent enough to understand what any of them are saying about Scamander?”

“Their English isn’t all that bad,” Crick answers defensively. “Besides, some things transcend language barriers.”

Sam coughs, and draws Percival’s attention with a murmured “Captain.” Percival arches a brow in question, and then turns in the direction of Sam’s pointed nod to see-

Oh yes. Of course. Absolutely perfect. Scamander is standing their, smoky and sooty and looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. This plan was just going absolutely perfectly.

Just how long had he been there? How much had he heard?

“Scamander,” Percival calls, drawing everyone’s attention to the slender and slightly hunched figure of the Brit standing just on the edge of the area claimed by the MSS. “It’s about time.”

Scamander looks up, and Percival realizes he couldn’t have been more wrong. Scamander may look like a kicked puppy, but it’s clear that he isn’t going to be running away yelping, nor whining for forgiveness. There’s an air of calm acceptance about the boy, as if he had somehow been expecting this. He’d heard everything, all right, and absolutely none of it had come as a surprise to him, nor seemed to be about to affect his behaviour in the slightest.

“Reporting as ordered, Captain Graves,” Scamander says , his soft voice somehow filling the entire open space. Of course, all eyes are on him. Unlike Crick and Marrow, no one else had really seen the Brit that was causing such a stir.

The last thing Percival wants right now is ‘interesting’, but that’s exactly what this day is going to turn out to be. His team is trying not to make it obvious that they’re jostling each other for a better look at the boy.

“Right,” Percival says in a sharp voice, drawing all eyes back to him. “Just because we’re not in the trenches doesn’t mean I’m going to let you lot laze about. The Russians have informed me that they’ll be moving camp again tomorrow at dawn, making their way toward the trenches to assist in the no-maj offensive. Our mission, gentlemen, has not changed. We will be accompanying the MDC as they move out and assessing all factors of the program. 

But what you should concern yourselves with now,” Percival continues, his eyes roving over the assembled men. “Is our morning physical training drill. I will be separating you into two teams, each team will be running along the two mile perimeter wards that surround this encampment in full field gear. That means full packs gentlemen, and no disapparating within the wards. Your goal is to get your entire team back to this spot first by any means necessary.”

“By any means?” A voice pipes up from the back, suddenly eager.

Percival pauses for a moment. “By any non-lethal means necessary, Giddens. Do try  _ not _ o kill each other. You can, however, duel each other, set traps, whatever you want, as long as your  _ entire _ team makes it back here together.” Which won’t be a problem for most of them but- Well, it was probably best to put to rest (or prove) any rumours that Crick had managed to pick up .

“Since I’m choosing the two teams, you will be even matched for this drill. Team one will be: Reid, Tarrant, Fields, Crick, and Telford. Team two: Giddens, Culver, Logan, Hutton and Scamander. Marrow, you’ll be my eye in the sky, keep an eye out for any unexpected trouble.”

There’s a chorus of “Yes sir!” from all assembled, and the men start splitting into their assigned teams.

“You have five minutes to collect your gear, then your teams can proceed as you each see fit. Scamander,” the boys head jerks up as Percival calls his name, looking a little lost and out of place. “You can use Marrow’s kit, since yours isn’t here at the moment. Marrow will even go fetch it for you.”

“I will?” Marrow teases, but the tone seems to go straight over Scamander’s head.

“If you could just tell me where it is-” Scamander starts, his eyes flicking around the beehive that the MSS camp has just become. 

“I was just teasin’,” Marrow says easily. “Don’t you worry, Scamander, that’s your team over there. I’ll be back right quick with the kit.”

“Oh, uh, yes. Yes sir,” he adds quickly.

“Scamander,” Giddens waves wildly. “Get your British butt over here, we have planning to do!”

Scamander hurries off toward his team, and Percival can’t help but shake his head slightly. Perhaps he should have given it a couple days before throwing them all together like this, but it’s not like he actually has the luxury of time. They’ll be pushing toward the front tomorrow, and with Crick already gathering drunken gossip, it’s best to let at least some of the others form their own opinions.

“Are you sure that was the best thing to do?”

Percival doesn’t even glance over at Sam, merely crosses his arms in front of himself and watches his men rush about and shout suggestions at each other as they’re on the move.

“We run war games all the time,” he answers easily, purposefully missing the point of Sam’s comment.

“You said the teams would be even,” Sams continues, knowing full well Percival had understood what he had  _ actually _ been saying and carrying on as if Percival had acknowledged it. “The team with Scamander is already at a disadvantage because he is an unknown element. He also doesn’t have a specialty.”

“That’s why Reid is on Team One,” Percival points out, his eyes lingering on Team Two, which seems to have come to a stand still, huddling in the centre of the camp.

“Reid is particularly strong with defensive spells, and I doubt you know Scamander’s capabilities. unless you have duelled with him.”

“You know I haven’t,” Percival grunts, turning his gaze away from the team huddle to see what the rest of the squad is doing. “Not that it wouldn’t do that boy some good,” he growls under his breath. 

“Besides,” he continues after a pause. “This is war, Sam. We don’t always get to choose who we work with,” he points out, waving a hand lazily in the air, indicating their current assignment as a case in point. 

He feels the weight of Sam’s stare before glancing over at his second, and glares at him in turn. “I am the Captain for a reason you know, Sam. Yes, most of the youngest are on Scamander’s team, but they’re more flexible. Dumping Scamander with Crick would have made the situation worse, but Logan and Giddens can change his mind. Hutton and Scamander are close enough in most respects that that should be an easy match. Culver...well, hopefully Culver will help balance things out a bit.”

“He’s not exactly a leader.”

“Well, you could always join the team and even things out if you’re that concerned about it,” Percival points out with a smirk

“And leave you here to do all the paperwork by yourself? I would never dream of such a thing,” Sam says earnestly.  “Mostly because you would never let me forget it,” he adds under his breath.

“Just so long as we understand each other,” Percival smirk and nods.

The five minutes are just about up, and there’s Marrow, right on time, dropping off his kit with Scamander then continuing back on toward Percival and Sam.

Percival nods at him, and magically amplifies his voice so everyone can hear him. “Five minutes is up, boys. The game starts now.”


	9. Eastern Front - MSS War Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay folks, I know it was only one week, but I'm still sorry.  
> Last week was a rough one for me, add that to action sequences which I have no confidence in and you get...well, a delay.  
> But here it is! However good or bad it is, there's no turning back now.  
> Oh! And if you haven't seen Elliot's wonderful [art](http://frostisass.tumblr.com/post/173870082094/there-they-all-are-the-members-of-the-mss-squad) of our boys you should really check it out because four of them are featured in this chapter!
> 
> As always, comments are loved and give me the will to keep writing.  
> Enjoy!

The small camp erupts with a frenzy of movement almost before Captain Graves finishes his orders. Men familiar with each other start shouting ideas back and forth even as they disperse to get the kit required for this particular exercise. Newt has no idea which group of men he’s supposed to be with, and he can’t help but feel even more awkward as one of the Americans jogs off to get his kit for Newt to use.

If Graves had bothered to tell him what they were going to be doing, he could have stopped off in his own tent to grab his kit before coming here. It’s done now though, so there’s no point worrying about it, but he can’t exactly be faulted for feeling a little put out by the whole situation; especially considering that no one has yet seen fit to tell him which group he’s supposed to be teaming up with.

The whirlwind of activity continues, and Newt is just stubborn enough to not want to ask where he’s meant to be.

“Scamander!”

The sound of his name catches Newt’s attention. It’s the same voice that had spoken up while Graves had been issuing his orders. Newt’s head lifts to find a sharp faced man with rather large ears and unusual scar tissue on the left side of his face waving wildly in his direction.

“Get your British butt over here! We have planning to do.”

Newt hesitates for a moment, then shrugs to himself; at least he knows who he’s supposed to be with now. Newt jogs over to the group, and nods at them as they turn to look at him. He feels like he should introduce himself but...they already all clearly know who he is.

An awkward silence stretches between him and the Americans.

The excitable one clears his throat.

“Ah, right then, welcome to Team Two, Scamander. Why don’t we all do some quick introductions? Let’s see, I’m Sergeant Douglas Giddens, you can go on ahead and just call me Giddens, specialty is Experimental Magic. Over here we’ve got Sergeant Wesley Hutton.” Giddens points to a younger man, dark except for his piercing blue eyes. “He’s a bit of a prodigy Healer, he can do stuff with non-traditional magic-” Giddens pauses as the young man shoots him a piercing look. “Okay, well, non-European magic I suppose. Anyways, he can do things that you just wouldn’t believe.”

Hutton turns his attention away from Giddens and inclines his head, giving Newt a small, shy smile.

“Next we have Sergeant Henry Culver.” This time he gestures to an older bearded man who just stares at Newt, making him want to hold up his hands to prove he’s no threat and back up slowly. “His specialty is communications, and the fact that he’s quite skilled at legilimency don’t hurt matters in that department. And finally, this here is Sergeant Guy Logan.” Giddens gestures to the second, darker man. “His specialty is weapons and offensive magic. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of none of his curses, let me tell you.”

The names and information comes so quickly Newt hardly has a moment to register which name belongs to which individual before all the introductions seem to be done. “A pleasure to meet you all,” he manages, ducking his head in a slightly awkward nod of acknowledgement. Merlin only knows if he’ll remember any of this in five minutes.

“Right! So Cap said we could use any of our skills or equipment at our disposal. What’s the chance of us being able to use one of your dragons, Scamander?”

“Giddens,” the oldest man, Newt believes his name was Culver, speaks up,  his voice a low rumble of warning.

“We could use them, certainly,” Newt answers with a slight shrug. “Would you say being eaten by a dragon is non-lethal?” He smirks a little at his own joke, and looks up to see the Americans staring at him like he’d just suggested they play the war game in the nude. “Ah,” he  says softly ducking his head and tilting it to the side. “Probably best not then?” Newt asks blandly.

Logan’s lips twitch.Giddens looks like he’s not sure whether or not Newt was joking.

There’s a burst of deep, hearty laughter, and a firm grip on Newt’s shoulder. Newt’s head lifts quickly and he looks up to find Culver looking down at him. The older man gives Newt a wink and a nod. Newt finds his smile widening slightly at the small gesture of approval.

Well that’s certainly unexpected

“I would say Scamander has the right of it. Non-lethal, Giddens. What do you say we try to come up with a plan that will actually have some chance of success?”

“We be faster,” Hutton speaks softly, in an accent Newt has never heard before. It sounds slightly French but...not like it at all somehow. “John, he is always careful. Reid, he’s no better. Smart, but likes to keep his distance; likes to plan before taking any action.”

Culver nods in consideration. “You’re probably right, Hutton. Our best tactic might be to outrun the other team.”

“Yeah, only, Crick and Tarrant are going to be sure to lay down traps if they’re forced to take it slow. I’ve been working on some pretty impressive trap spells, now would be the perfect time to try them out!”

“Will they blow anyone up?” Logan asks hesitantly.

“They aren’t designed to, necessarily, blow people up.”

“Will they blow anyone up?” Culver repeats Logan’s question.

Giddens pauses, clearly thinking it through. “Not lethally,” he says after a moment of thought.

Not necessarily blow people up? Well that certainly inspires confidence.

Newt listens to all of the planning carefully, staying silent for the most part as ideas are tossed back and forth. He doesn’t know anything about the other team, and almost nothing about his team, so he’s not sure what he can contribute until he’s gathered more information.

Captain Graves calls the time, and Team One makes a beeline for the camp perimeter. 

Newt’s team is still debating tactics.

“What if-” Newt begins slowly, speaking as the thoughts come to him, almost before he’s even aware of them. “What if we put the majority of our traps here, right at the finish line. If Team One is cautious, they may waste time looking for traps that aren’t there, and be caught unawares with victory in sight, if they get here first. If we get back first, then we can easily avoid or disarm them. It would also allow us to move more quickly in the initial stage if we aren’t pausing to set traps. That will allow us to make up time.”

Newt can feel the eyes on him, but keeps his own gaze fixed on the ground. His mind whirls with all the information that had been tossed around, solving the puzzle being presented to him. “If-” he pauses, trying to organize the swarm in his mind. “What if Culver keeps an eye on Team One using legilimency, but not on the team itself, they may noticed and take measures to mislead us, but if he could use it on Marrow-” Newt’s eyes glance up at the sky and the black spot of the raven Marrow had transformed into in order to be Captain Graves’ eyes. “Then we’ll have the perfect view to map out any traps they set or their positions as we near each other at whatever point.”

His mind comes to a stop, out of information to process. Newt falls silent again, and it seems to stretch out.

Uncertainly, he tilts his head so he can raise his eyes and glance at the other members of his group.

“That...could definitely work,” Giddens starts out hesitantly, then beams. “Actually, that’s perfect! Though I do wish we could use your dragons, Scamander.”

“Non-lethal, Giddens,” Logan says with a soft sigh. “You’ll have to settle for me.”

“Gentlemen,” Culver interrupts before the banter can continue. “If we wish to use speed to our advantage, perhaps we had best get underway?”

“You lot go on ahead, I’ll start the traps here and catch you up. Shouldn’t be a problem. If you reach the others before I get there…”

“Then it's probably for the best,” Logan cuts in. “You’re just as likely to blow us up as them.”

“Oi! I-”

“You resemble that? I’m aware.” Logans cuts Giddens off again.

Newt bites his cheek on a grin, and hoists his borrowed kit onto his back.

Hutton follows his example, and the others aren’t that far behind. 

“Right, let’s leg it, lads.”

It’s not hard to get from the camp to the perimeter, a rough track has started to form from all the foot traffic. It doesn’t take much longer to reach roughly the same point around the perimeter as the other team, and then to over take them.

Culver doesn’t even stumble as he calls out updates. The only hint that he’s using legilimency is an occasional far off look in his eyes. 

Giddens is done at the camp.

Team one is mostly under cover, but their pace suggests that they are most certainly laying traps.

Worrying about traps can come later. Right now the most important thing is getting as far around the perimeter as they can before they meet the other team. The farther along they get, the smaller the area with traps will be.

Culver calls out the halfway point.

Giddens is on his way.

Giddens is catching up.

“Almost there,” Culver calls out once more, dropping from a run to a walk.

“They’re just over that ridge. I don’t see any sign that they’re expecting us, we’ve made good time. But I think it’s best if we slow a bit, find a defensible position. There seems to be-”

“ _ Stupefy fluctus! _ ”

Only reflexes honed from working with temperamental creatures saves Newt from the wave that instantly stuns the rest of his team. He crouches low and raises his wand, casting a wordless protection spell just as the wave reaches him. 

Without turning, he flicks his wand over his shoulder. “ _ Enervate _ ,” he casts, hoping he’s hit at least one of his team mates, and they can revive the rest of them. “ _ Aqua eructo. _ ”

It’s the only spell he can think of at the moment. A column of water erupts from the tip of his wand, shooting in the direction that the first spell had come from. All of team one would have to be gathered in that general area, or they would be just as stunned as his team mates. Unless of course they had shielded-

Newt shakes the thoughts from his head. Overthinking never helped anyone in a duel, especially in a group duel. Worrying only slowed your reflexes. 

Worrying only made you suffer twice.

There’s murmuring behind him, and he relaxes slightly. Newt hasn’t ever really had the chance to work in a group larger than two before - mostly because others seemed completely content with being on any team except the one that had him on it - which hadn’t been a problem until, well now, when he was supposed to be working with others on a team. 

“ _ Cave inimicum,”  _ Newt murmurs under his breath, casting a hasty ward around them. It should protect them all from enemies...hopefully it would work in this game as, strictly speaking, the opposite team were actually ‘enemies’ in the true sense of the word.

“ _ Fianto duri _ .” The invisible wall between him and the opposing team shimmers, becoming almost visible as the charm is strengthened. 

Newt glances over his shoulder to find Hutton with his wand raised. He nods in thanks, the other smiles warmly.

“If you two have the defensive magic,” Logan already has his wand out, and even as he talks, he flicks and twists his wrist, shooting bolts of multicoloured light from the tip of his wand. “Culver and I can probably take care of the incapacitation.”

“As long as you’re in sight,” Newt nods. 

“If you do shields, I’ll do counters.” Hutton says softly, his piercing blue eyes focused on the figures of Culver and Logan, already making their way towards the others.

There’s no point in trying to maintain a shield. Newt and Hutton follow closely behind the others, calling out shield charms and counter jinxes as spells fly. It seems every step they push forward they end up taking another step back. It can’t be though, because they’re climbing the hill. Step by painful step.

Exhaustion is starting to pull at Newt though, he can feel it in his reaction times. More jinxes are getting through, he has to counter almost as much as Hutton now.

The other team has more people. That has to be what’s giving them the edge, allowing them to hold their ground and continue pushing back. 

At this rate, they’re all going to be flattened.

Suddenly there’s a sound, an explosion, and Newt erects a hasy shield spell over the area occupied by his team as dirt rains down on the entire hill.

“Did you miss me lads?”

Another explosion literally rocks the hill they’re all standing on. sending dirt everywhere and toppling trees. Newt’s shield sparks, a last minute readjustment making sure it falls  _ around _ the shield, instead of straight through it and onto...well, anybody. 

“For fuck’s sake! Non-lethal!”

“Good Gods, Giddens! That nearly hit me! And they call my people heathens.”

“Sorry. Sorry. My bad. Mercy Lewis, Logan! Aren’t you going to do something?”

“What?” Logan looks as confused and out of sorts as Newt is feeling.

Trees? Bloody falling trees? 

“Oh. Shit.”

Logan raises his wand at the same time another man does. Twin arcs of red light lance through the sky. 

They meet.

And the world explodes.

A blinding white light spreads out from the top of the hill, bringing with it a force that drives Newt to his knees even as it blinds him. It presses against his shield spell, forcing it back until it can cover only him.

When Newt blinks his eyes free of the bright spots, the top of the hill has quite clearly been levelled and-

Almost no one is standing.

Almost.

Through streaming eyes, Newt can just make out on figure standing. Mostly standing. The figure wavers, and weaves as it turns first towards his fallen comrades, then back out toward Newt and the flattened ground.

Newt immediately ducks down. He doesn’t need to look around to know that the rest of his team mates are either stunned or unconscious. 

Bugger.

The other figure moves around, waking his fallen teammates, keeping a wary eye on the sprawled forms on the other side of the hill. Newt does his best to stay absolutely still, watching with hooded eyes.

At least they had farther to go...once they got moving again. As long as they didn’t notice that Newt wasn’t quite as incapacitated as the rest of his team, they might still be able to win the game overall, if not this particular encounter.

“Get their wands, Crick, that’ll slow ‘em down. No, John, there ain’t no time for that. They’ll be just fine. The Cap’ll send Leverett out once Lavern reports to him. We gotta head out now. Giddens was late, no doubt that means they left him behind to trap the route left right ‘n’ center. Let’s be gettin’ on.”

“All right all right. Give me a damn fucking second, Reid. Just cause you’ve asked me to do something don’t mean it gets done that instant.”

The man moves over the rise, flicking a cigarette to the ground even as he lights another one.

Newt closes his eyes, and forces himself to keep his breathing slow and even.

There’s a low muttering as the man, Newt assumes his name is Crick judging by the exchange, gathers the fallen wands.

The sounds of movement start to fade. Footsteps move off. Newt risks lifting his head to see if he can’t make out where their wands are being stashed. 

“Right, now that that’s taken care of, let’s get a move on already.”

“There ain’t no need to rush, Crick. We can take a nice leisurely stroll now that this lot is down.”

“That would be the epitome of hubris, Reid,” comes a calm voice. “But there is no need to abandon caution at this point.”

Newt remains utterly still until the last of the voices has faded away. Then his head pops up, and he catches sight of movement off to his right. He immediately tenses, concerned that he had somehow misjudged, that someone from Team One had stayed behind.

But, no, that’s-

Hutton smiles at Newt and ducks his head in a shy nod, pulling out a small pouch from a concealed pocket inside his shirt, as if that will somehow answer any question that Newt might think to ask. 

“I’ll check them. You saw where they hid the wands?”

“What? Oh, yes. I did. How-” Newt glances down at where Hutton slips the pouch back into its pocket, and shrugs. He can ask all the questions he wants later, after they finish this little game. “I’ll got get them now, are you all right without yours?” he nods down at the prone forms of their teammates.

“Yes. Healing ain’t no big thing when you know what you’re doin’.”

Newt grins and nods. He can’t fault that logic. “Be right back,” he says easily, and pulls himself to his feet.

He knows the general direction that the man had gone with their wands, but it still takes him longer than he would like to find his own wand and summon the rest. By the time he gets back to the rest of his team, everyone is already awake and standing. 

Most of the group.

“Hutton?” he asks in confusion.

“Oh, he’s gone on ahead,” Giddens informs him, idly running his hand through his hair, and sighing in relief when Newt hands him his wand. “Culver gave him the general area of the traps in our direct path, he’s real light on his feet and’ll have an easier time of getting past most of them and marking them out for me.”

“I’m keeping in touch with him,” Culver nods, and taps a finger to the side of his head. “And an eye on the others. We’re not out of it yet. And of course, the surprise at the end.” He winks at Newt and nods in Giddens’ direction. “One way or another that is.”

“Oh, just you wait, our friends are in for a surprise all right.”

“You’re not going to blow them up are you?” Logan asks, holstering his wand after taking it from Newt.

“Oi! You’re going to give Scamander the wrong impression of me!”

“You nearly hit me with a tree,” Newt observes dryly. “I think I have entirely the correct impression.”

There’s a gasp of pure devastation, and Newt turns to find Giddens clutching at his chest. “Not you too, Scamander! I thought I had a chance to get at least one person on my side.”

“Yes, yes, Giddens, you’re terribly injured I’m sure, but don’t we have a game to win?”

“Oh,” Giddens grins, the expression contagious. “You bet your ass we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for your information, and because writing accents is fucking hard:  
> Guy Logan is from Queens.  
> Henry Culver is from England.  
> Wesley Hutton is from New Orleans.  
> Douglas Giddens is from New Haven.  
> So if you can imagine accents, that's what they have.


	10. Eastern Front - MSS Mobile Headquarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short, and definitely un-edited, but it is an update!  
> Thank you all again for the lovely comments! I adore every one.  
> Hope you enjoy~

Judging from Marrow’s reports, the game is going well so far. It doesn’t take much for Percival to determine what the strategies are, and he already has an idea about which team is going to win. Of course, there are certain factors he can’t predict, even knowing his men as well as he does.

“Well that was unexpected,” Sam says softly, leaning back in the small camp chair they’d brought out from the command tent to make reports for Marrow easier. His eyes are fixed on the shrinking figure of the raven. 

“Is it?” Percival asks distractedly, already leaning over the stack of parchments again. At least he’s finally able to make a dent in all the backlog - with Sam’s help of course. 

“Is it not?” Sam asks in surprise, directing his gaze back to Percival. 

“Not if you think about it.” Percival shrugs, and doesn’t lift his gaze from the latest report from the Western Front. “Scamander works with dragons, Sam. Of course he’s going to have to be quick on the draw, and more than passing fair with defensive spells, otherwise he’d be a crisp by now.” And so would Percival, he reluctantly admits to himself.

“I knew there was a reason they made you the Captain,” Sam grins. “Besides your ability to so efficiently write reports.”

Percival grunts softly, and lifts his gaze to glare at his second-in-command. “Remind me why I chose you as my second?” he growls in annoyance. 

“Because I do not allow you to intimidate me.”

He snorts slightly. “Yeah, that seems to be going around.” His own men he can understand, they were sufficiently respectful when they had first formed up. In the field things happen, men get more comfortable with each other, which is obviously a good thing. But Scamander...Scamander should respect his rank if nothing else, and yet Scamander seemed perfectly content to respect...well...absolutely nothing, as far as Percival can tell, except his creatures that is.

“You also trust me to call you out when you are being particularly stubborn, thick-headed and blind, and support you against equally stubborn and thick-headed bureaucrats. Both, if the situation demands it.”

“Yes,” Percival sighs, laying down his quill and leaning back in his seat. “I suppose there is that.”

Sam grins cheekily, but before he can come up with another witty retort, a loud croak from above them, and a ball of black feathers plummets out of the sky, nearly colliding with the table before it catches itself and lands on the ground.

The raven form immediately starts to expand and transform, until Marrow is kneeling on the ground, laughing so hard that tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes. 

“What in Merlin’s name-” Percival half rises from the table, staring at Marrow like he’d just lost his mind. Of course they’re behind friendly lines so Marrow should be perfectly safe but-

“Giddens,” Marrow manages to gasp, collapsing fully onto the ground so he can wipe at the corners of his eyes and look up at Percival. 

Giddens. Well, yes, that explains it. “Crick walked right into one of Giddens’ trap spells.” Another round of laughter shakes Marrow’s slender frame. “Good Giddens! His face, Cap! You should’a seen it.”

“Is he in one piece?” Percival asks, sinking back into his chair, watching Marrow with an equal mix of amusement and concern. It’s not that Giddens isn’t exceptionally talented he just also happens to be...accident prone - at least in the early stages of any new experiments. The middle stages can be a bit rough too. Well, Percival amends to himself, at least when he gets it, he  _ really _ gets it.

“Oh aye, Cap’n! That he is. One piece all right. Only...the piece he’s in-” Marrow nearly chokes on his chuckles. 

“Spit it out, Marrow.”

“It’s a duck, sir. Crick is...well...he’s just ducky, captain.”

Percival tries to hold back his laughter. 

Sam doesn’t even bother trying. He throws his head back and lets out a big booming laugh, joining in with Marrow who has, once again, been reduced to helpless giggles.

“Well,” Percival coughs, his lips twitching as he tries to keep his smile in check. “Just so long as he’s in one piece,” he says carefully. “The rest of your update, Sergeant?”

“They-” Marrow has to pause again, mirth shining in his eyes. “They were all chasin’ him around, Cap. They chased him right into another trap spell,” Marrow’s voice is shaking with the effort to hold back his laughter. “Last I saw, ol’ Ducky was floatin’ up among the trees in a bubble as Field tried to head him off and get him down.”

Percival’s lips twitch again. “And the other team?” he asks, his voice dull with the effort of keeping it calm. 

“Oh, they were gatherin’ their wands. Wes was sent on ahead to mark out any traps he could detect in their planned path of approach. Culver was keeping a pretty close eye on them through me as they were coming around originally.” Marrow calms down as he gives the rest of his report, his voice evening out, though he’s clearly still amused. “By my estimates if they can catch Crick-” his voice breaks on a laugh. “If they can catch him, everyone should arrive near the same time.”

Percival nods. That was pretty much what he had expected.

Minus the duck of course.

It’s still anyone’s game - provided Field can catch Crick of course.

“You can return to your surveillance, Sergeant. It won’t be much longer now anyway. You can come back when the first team arrives here, or unless there is anything else to report.”

Marrow pulls himself to his feet and brushes the dirt off his uniform. “Aye, Captain.” He nods, managing to stay serious for at least a moment before a grin spreads again. “I want to see how Crick is making out.” Even as he laughs again, Marrow lets his form shrink, and takes off in a rush of black feathers.

“A duck,” Percival sighs, then lets out the laughter he had been holding in. “Crick is  _ not _ going to be very happy about that.”

“Millard is going to sulk all night, we both know it,” Sam agrees. “I only regret that we could not see it for ourselves.”

“Oh,” Percival says softly, glancing over to the entrance of the camp where he and Sam had watched him lay a rather elaborate and complex system of trap spells. “I wouldn’t discount that possibility just yet.”

Sam follows his gaze, then grins. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He and Sam share a look that has them both smiling when they turn their attention back to the nearly completed paperwork.

Not much work actually gets done now. It’s hard to stay focused when you’re waiting for all hell to break loose. Percival can’t help but look up every minute or so, scanning the camp entrance for any sign of his approaching men; or looking up at the sky to see if there is any indication that Marrow is coming back in to watch the fun up close.

It’s only when Percival forces himself to actually focus on the sheet in front of him that chaos actually erupts.

“Ha! We did it! I knew we would!”

“It was hardly your idea, Giddens.”

“You turned me into a fucking duck!”

“Oh shit.”

“ _ Protego!” _

Percival manages to look up just as the red light of a stunning spell bounces off a shield charm.

Both groups have arrived nearly simultaneously, and to say that Crick is a little put out would definitely be the understatement of the century. 

Spell after spell is flung toward the other group, the rest of Team One inching slowly towards the finish line.

Scamander seems to be having no difficulty in parrying Crick’s spells. He sends them shooting up into the air, not gaining any ground, but not giving any up either. 

But then, he wouldn’t try to advance, not knowing-

There’s a surprised squawk, and where Reid had been just about to cross the finish line, a chicken stands, feathers fully fluffed in indignation. 

“Just a moment Reid-” Field approaches the squawking bird, then cries out in surprise himself as his feet sink into the ground while his head is encompassed by a pumpkin.

Crick glances behind him. “What the fucking-”

“ _ Ducklifors. _ ” Giddens calls out with a smirk, taking advantage of Crick’s momentary distraction to cast a jinx, returning  Crick to his former ducky state.

Percival has to bit his cheek against the laughter trying to get out. Trust Giddens to turn a completely serious exercise into a complete circus.

“Gentlemen,” Giddens says with a bright smile and an elaborate bow. “If you’ll just step this way, I think you’ll find that victory is waiting for us.”

As Team Two steps over the invisible finish line, Percival stands from the camp table, clapping his hands, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Congratulations,” he says once he’s certain his voice won’t crack. “Unorthodox but...effective, and certainly non-lethal.”

Giddens beams proudly.

Culver slaps Scamander on the back, sending the skinny Brit stumbling forward. “Couldn’t have done it without Scamander, here. Quite the hand at protection spells. Which you think he could have mentioned before we started this.”

“You didn’t exactly ask if I was proficient with anything,” Newt points out distractedly as he catches his balance.

“Well, that is our mistake,” Culver says softly, sobering up a bit. 

Newt shakes his head. “Please, don’t worry about it. There’s no point, what’s done is done. But-” Scamander glances towards Percival. “I do have dragons to tend to-”

Percival nods. “Yes, very well. Report back here once you’re done.”

Scamander nods, and drops Marrow’s back before rushing off in the direction of the main camp.

He can’t help but smile a little as he watches Scamander’s retreating back. That had certainly gone much better than he anticipated. Perhaps it wouldn’t be quite as hard as hard to work with Scamander as he’d thought.


	11. Eastern Front - MSS Command Tent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are all the most lovely readers! Thank you so much for all your comments.  
> Please forgive the unedited state of my chapters, I just want to get the updates to you all so much I skip a step.  
> Enjoy some Gramander bonding time~

Once again, Newt finds himself reporting to Captain Graves - a thing he’s going to have to get used to. “Reporting as ordered,” Newt says into the silence of the command tent. “Polkovnik Nesterov gave me these to pass along to you.” Newt hold out and opened envelope.

On his return to the MSS encampment, Newt had been delayed by Kusya delivering his new orders. Effective immediately, his secondment to the Royal Russian Magical Forces was suspended, and he was reassigned to the United States Expeditionary Forces, Magical Special Security, Commanding Officer: Captain Percival Graves. His orders signed by the minister himself and- Well of course  _ he _ would have found a way to involve himself in this.

“And asked me to inform you that we will be moving camp at 0400 tomorrow.” Which, of course Graves had already informed his men of this morning, though how he could have known-

“Are you going to stand there all day, Scamander?” Graves’ voice cuts through Newt’s preoccupied thoughts. 

His head jerks up automatically and he stares at the man for a moment, before his gaze slides to just past his ear. “What exactly am I supposed to do, Captain?” he asks, sounding exactly as sullen as he feels.  Despite the relative success of the War Games yesterday, Newt can’t exactly say that he’s pleased to have been shuffled around like a pawn on a chess board. He can’t help but feel like Captain Graves is evaluating  _ him _ more than the dragon program - and the evaluation is not going well at all.

The man hadn’t exactly given him any orders, had merely nodded when Newt had entered the tent, taken the envelope from Newt, and then continued to frown down at the parchment in front of him. 

“You could take a seat,” Captain Graves remarks dryly, nodding to the second chair set up at one end of the table. “I am certain that even  _ you _ can write field reports.”

“Field reports?” Newt asks as he slips into the seat.“About what?” He catches Graves’ pointed look, and sighs softly. “Field reports about what,  _ sir _ ,” he corrects himself. Even Kusya wasn’t this bad when it came to protocol.

“A report detailing the planned movement of your beasts tomorrow. I will be assigning one of my men to assess and aid you in the task based upon what you write. When we set up camp again tomorrow, I expect you to pitch your tent with ours, and report back to me to write a follow up report. I will be writing one as well, of course, but you  _ are _ the expert. Then you draw up yours plans regarding the release of your charges. Be sure to include an analysis of their characteristics, their behaviours, and any impact you forsee them having on any area they are relocated to. It’s bureaucrats that you will have to convince of the soundness of your plan.” With a graceful twist of his wrist, Graves sends a bundle of new parchment, quills, and ink floating over to Newt, even as he turns his gaze back to the work he had been doing before Newt arrived.

“I can do that,” Newt says softly, managing a slight smile as he relaxes slightly now that Graves isn’t pinning him with his stare. This he could do. There is so much to these creatures, he’s not entirely sure he can write it all down, but in the pursuit of educating his fellow wizards, he’s certainly willing to try. Regardless, he will hardly be able to make a dent in it today or tomorrow if he’s expected to write out everything he plans to do and write it out again when he’s done. 

He picks up one of the quills, and pulls a piece of parchment toward him, bending immediately to outline the procedure for moving the dragons along the Eastern Front, and then his plans to return the creatures to their natural habitats and traditional ranges.

He knows from Theseus that he’s going to have to be clear, precise, and concise if he’s going to make anyone see his point let alone have a chance of anyone in power actually agreeing to the plan. He doesn’t have much time before the offensive begins, but then, Newt really doesn’t expect any plan to be put into motion until after the attack is either a success or a failure, so he might have a bit more time- Probably best just to put down everything first, then refine it later.

Newt scribbles frantically, biting  the end of the quill in thought every now and then as he attempts to sort through the maelstrom of thoughts and ideas swirling through his mind.

“I don’t know about you,” the voice catches Newt completely by surprise, making him jump and blot the line he had just been working on. 

He’d forgotten he was in the MSS command tent.

“But I could do with a break…” Graves  finishes slowly, his eyes pinned on Newt like he’s trying to dissect him.

It sends an uneasy shiver down Newt’s spine. He can’t help but wish he was better at reading people so he could fix whatever it is about himself that seems to be bothering the Captain, if only for his own peace of mind.

“Oh?” Newt asks, pulling himself back form his own little world. “What time is it?”

“Somewhere between lunch and dinner, I think,” Graves answers in a tone that Newt can’t quite figure out. “Although, perhaps you should clean yourself up a bit first, I can’t let you leave the tent looking like that.”

Newt glances down at himself as Graves’ eyes look him over. His fingers at least are smudged with ink, and he has a feeling one or two more smudges will be smeared across his face. Still, Newt only shrugs as he stands and stretches, his back popping from being hunched over for so long after such an intense workout that morning. “It’s just some ink.”

Graves makes a face and releases a sharp breath. “Mercy Lewis, you’ve been neglecting your physical training haven’t you? Since you’re working with us now, you’re going to have to work on that.”

“I think you’ll find that working with dragons is enough physical training on its own,” Newt responds dryly, his lips twitching in a small smirk. 

“With the sounds I just heard? You’re body would beg to disagree,” Graves responds in the same dry tone and, Newt is surprised to note, his own smirk of amusement.

Newt does some quick recalculating in his mind, wondering if perhaps he had completely misread Graves’ actions and intentions in the past couple of days.

“We’ll work on that,” Graves continues, standing and stretching as well. “I’ll add it to the ‘to-do’ list.”

_ That _ certainly catches Newt’s attention. He stares at Graves, his head tilted slightly, his gaze curious as it rests on Graves’ face, trying to get a better read on him. “Are you making me a pet project, Captain?” he asks with a hint of sarcastic amusement. “Just what else is on this ‘to-do’ list?”

The look Graves gives him then goes right over Newt’s head; he can’t even begin to puzzle out what might be going on in Graves’ mind. 

“I might be,” Graves responds smoothly, his tone as frustratingly obtuse as the look he’s giving Newt. “We should probably go get some food,” he continues blandly, walking past Newt and patting him on the shoulder. “I won’t tell you anymore than that, Private. It would take the joy out of it.”

The physical contact is completely unexpected, and makes Newt tense a little, his mind immediately running through a list of possible meanings behind the touch as he turns his head to stare at the hand on his shoulder. He’s unable to settle on any satisfactory theory, his attention once more diverted by Graves’ words. “Right,” he says slowly, moving his eyes from his shoulder up to Graves, frowning slightly at the particularly difficult puzzle of human behaviour that he’s presenting. 

The joy out of what?

“Are you coming, Private?” Graves asks, holding the flap of the tent open.

“Ah, yes,” Newt nods distractedly. “Though I should probably-”

“You dragons can wait, Private. You’ve already missed one meal today, and you really can’t afford it. Consider this an order: report to the mess tent for sustenance.” Graves motions again, and starts off in the direction of the aforementioned mess tent.

Newt follows along after, his mind once again whirling around the incongruities of Captain Percival Graves.

They arrive at the mess tent almost before Newt realizes it, and he nearly walks into Graves as he pauses just inside the nearly empty tent. Nearly, except for- 

“Oi! Cap! ‘Bout time you showed up.”

Of course. Newt suppresses a sigh, not entirely certain he’s up to dealing with the Americans again quite so soon. It wasn’t that the morning exercise had been a disaster but- Well, it made him even more uncertain where he stood with these men, especially after overhearing their dispute about Newt before he’d been noticed.

“Don’t tell me that you lazy lot have been here all afternoon.” 

Newt hesitates, hanging back as Graves strides easily towards his men. Experience has taught Newt that he won’t be welcome, and he has never been particularly comfortable with large groups of people. 

“Fields is busy doing his code-talker thing,decoding the latest intelligence from our side, both no-mag and our stuff. ” The man who had been most outspoken about Newt that morning exhaled a cloud of smoke, and switched out the butt end of one cigarette for a brand new one, even as he talked. “Not much else for the rest of us to do is there? Besides gather all the local gossip that is.” A pair of steel blue eyes fix on Newt and a strange sort of silence seems to radiate.

Automatically, Newt stiffens, uncertain yet if his fight or flight instinct is kicking in.

“Crick-” Graves begins, but he’s cut off by another one of his men.

“Yeah, well, you had more than enough of that last night, Ducky. You know that too much information in that little head of yours makes ya into a right bloody bastard.”

“Don’t you start with that ‘ducky’ thing again, Lavern!” 

The gaze moves from Newt to the sharp faced man that Newt recognizes as the one who had talked to him outside the dragon pens, the animagus.

“I don’t know, Serge, you made a pretty good duck.”

“Not you too, Logan! What happened to specialists sticking together? You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Just ignore them,” Graves says softly, and nods his head towards the food line. “They’re evolving into a pack of hollering hyenas without anything to do. They’re loud, but harmless enough. Giving them attention only feeds into the behaviour. Let’s go over there and grab something. I’ve been reliably informed that it’s food.”

A smile tugs at Newt’s lips, and he nods as he follows along to the food line - though he can’t quite make himself entirely turn his back to the table of American’s, especially not after that metaphor.

Laden down with a plate of ‘food’, Newt trails after Percival as he returns to the table with all the MSS soldiers. He’s tempted to just find another table, Newt has no desire to intrude, knowing full well by now that forcing his presence on people only leads to them growing tired of him faster. And it’s not exactly like he objects to being alone, especially not if he has the company of his dragons to look forward to.

“Scamander,” the deep voice of Culver pulls Newt’s attention, practically summoning him to the table. The man shifts a little, forcing Giddens further down the bench. “Come, join us.”

Well...this is new.

Newt manages to squeeze himself onto the bench, only to find himself directly across from the steel-eyed man, Crick. He quickly ducks his head and directs his gaze toward his food, as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Word around camp is that the move tomorrow ain’t going to be no walk in the park.”

Newt glance up from his food to the man across from him, and away again. “We’re heading for the front,” he says carefully, poking at his mush before taking a careful bite. “No one signed up for this because it would be easy.”

“There’s good money betting on someone being eaten tomorrow. Curiously, none of it’s on you.”

“Serge-”

“Leave it, Crick.”

Newt takes another bite of his food, swallowing it down along with the lump in his throat. “Everyone who is going to be concerned with the dragons is very skilled,” he says carefully. Otherwise they would have been eaten already, Newt adds to himself. “But with dragons, it’s expected that there will be some difficulties. They haven’t been moved before.”

“The way I hear it, you’re the only ones that the fucking things  _ don’t _ try to eat. What’s your secret, Scamander?”

He tenses again, biting his tongue against the rising indignation. Americans! They think they know everything, when they actually know nothing. They had a policy  _ against _ magical creatures, seemed dead set on exterminating them. “They are creatures like any other, Sergeant,” he says softly, laying his fork down and lifting his gaze. “I try not to antagonize them. I refrain from using offensive spells. Acting too aggressively will only provoke them, and being too passive will only invite attack.”

The man snorts. “There’s a reason we’re out here, pup, and it ain’t to coddle watery eyed idealists like you.” 

“Millard, for fuck’s sake!”

“I’m not an idealist,” Newt says defensively, ignoring everyone else and finally meeting the man’s gaze. “Dragons are creatures like any other, with their own needs and habits. Look what happens when you prod too hard at humans.” Newt waves his hand to encompass the tent, the encampment, the whole bloody war. “When you try to force them to do something, take them from  _ their _ home. Magical creatures aren’t any more dangerous than any other just because they’re magical.”

“Yeah well, seems like an awful lot of effort and risk for something that is basically walking fiendfyre.”

“They’re not weapons,” Newt snaps at last, glaring at the man. “They’re not monsters either. They didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for this either, I’m just trying to do my best for them and everyone else involved.” He pushes his plate away and stands, turning away from the table. 

“Private Scamander.” Graves’ voice cuts through the tense silence, and halts Newt in his steps. “You are dismissed for the rest of the day. Tend to your charges and report back to me after the operation tomorrow.”

Newt nods in acknowledgement. Not that he had needed Graves’ permission, but… well, it was nice to have it all the same.

_     _ _

 

As Scamander stalks out of the tent, Percival turns a cold, hard gaze to Crick. “Must you always be an irredeemable ass, Millard?” He nearly growls.

“Yeah, Ducky! That was just uncalled for.”

Percival turns his glare to Marrow, who at least has the grace to grin sheepishly and pipe down.

“Just cause he did all right in the exercise today don’t mean I have to welcome him with open arms,” Crick responds, more than a little petulant. “With an attitude like that, he could get us  _ all _ killed.”

“Or he could keep us all from being burned to a crisp,” Sam remarks, his voice deceptively mild.

“If that’s how you feel, Millard,” Percival sighs softly, shaking his head. “Perhaps you should be with Private Scamander tomorrow during the operation. You are right, we need to keep an eye on the situation, assess it, that  _ is _ why we’re here.”

“Now wait just a fucking second, Captain-”

“Since you  _ are _ the ranking weapons and offensive magic specialist, it’s the logical choice.” The logical choice it might be, Percival thinks privately to himself, but this could very easily backfire as well.

“Captain-”

“That’s an order, Sergeant. You will report to the dragon pens tomorrow at 0400 and remain with Private Scamander, strictly observing, for the duration of the operation.”


End file.
